were too young to handle the
responsibilities of running the estate. Duty came to us too early
after the death of your grandfather.
Both of us
were to blame for what happened. Your mother found solace and badly
needed affection in the arms of another for a time. We came to our
senses and realised we still desperately loved and cared for each
other. But your mother was already pregnant. We want to make it
clear that we never, ever thought of terminating the pregnancy. You
have always been much wanted and much loved.
If you are
reading this it means we’ve left this earth too soon, before we
found the courage to tell you to your face.
Your
biological father has no idea of your existence. That is a decision
we have come to regret, but we made it when we were young and once
done it could not be undone.
Your
biological father is Carl Terlezki. He is a wonderful man who cared
very deeply for your mother at a vulnerable time in her life.
We hurt too
many people all those years ago. And now we have to hurt you too.
We are so sorry, my darling.
What you do
with this information is entirely up to you, Bronte, but we hope
you contact Carl and show him this letter. Perhaps finding each
other will bring joy to you both. Please find it in your hearts to
forgive us for keeping you apart.
Your loving
parents.
They’d been so close,
had shared so much.
Why hadn’t they
told her?
She had so many
questions and too many words were left unsaid.
Then the
problem with the will had arisen and the inheritance because she
wasn’t a Ludlow. Her parent’s had left her The Dower House, but
Ludlow Hall would need to be sold. And then she’d had to deal with
her fiancé’s decision that they were too young to settle down. He
hadn’t attended the funeral, saying it was a ‘private, family
matter.’ What kind of person did something like that to someone
they were supposed to care about?
The room swam
as tears gathered behind her eyes. Her throat tightened. Furious
with herself she blinked them away.
She’d researched Carl
Terlezki. Google wasn’t just Rosie’s friend.
The man who
stared at her from her laptop was in his mid-sixties, slim, tanned
and still handsome. He had a thick shock of white hair and
apparently was a wealthy financier and a man who raised millions
for good causes. Although he appeared to have had relationships,
he’d never married nor had children. At least none he acknowledged
publicly.
She’d put his
face on her screensaver just to torture herself. What if he didn’t
want to know her? What if he thought she was after his money? What
did she want from him? In spite of her parent’s lying to her she’d
had an idyllic childhood. She still felt angry with them, the sense
of betrayal a weeping sore in her heart.
So she’d sent a
tentative letter keeping it vague, telling him about her parent’s
death and the discovery of a letter. Might she meet him to discuss
it? The reply had taken weeks since the letter had got caught up in
other correspondence. Carl had asked her to phone him and she had
done, less than forty eight hours ago. She was due to meet him on
tomorrow morning at his office in the City. By his tone he sounded
intrigued; he assumed she wanted him to donate funds to a worthy
cause. He’d be delighted, he said, to meet the daughter of such a
wonderful woman.
Bronte had no
idea what she was going to say to him and Alexander was not happy
about the situation. Her brother didn’t want to stir up a scandal,
old news from the past that would certainly hit the headlines and
smear the family name. She could understand it, but for too many
months she’d struggled with what was the right thing to do. Doing
nothing was not an option. So she’d taken the decision to play it
by ear. Give Carl Terlezki the letter and gauge his reaction to the
news. What was the worse that could happen?
No more tears,
she told herself ruthlessly as she stared now at the drawing of
Nico Ferranti.
She wanted
responsibilities of running the estate. Duty came to us too early
after the death of your grandfather.
Both of us
were to blame for what happened. Your mother found solace and badly
needed affection in the arms of another for a time. We came to our
senses and realised we still desperately loved and cared for each
other. But your mother was already pregnant. We want to make it
clear that we never, ever thought of terminating the pregnancy. You
have always been much wanted and much loved.
If you are
reading this it means we’ve left this earth too soon, before we
found the courage to tell you to your face.
Your
biological father has no idea of your existence. That is a decision
we have come to regret, but we made it when we were young and once
done it could not be undone.
Your
biological father is Carl Terlezki. He is a wonderful man who cared
very deeply for your mother at a vulnerable time in her life.
We hurt too
many people all those years ago. And now we have to hurt you too.
We are so sorry, my darling.
What you do
with this information is entirely up to you, Bronte, but we hope
you contact Carl and show him this letter. Perhaps finding each
other will bring joy to you both. Please find it in your hearts to
forgive us for keeping you apart.
Your loving
parents.
They’d been so close,
had shared so much.
Why hadn’t they
told her?
She had so many
questions and too many words were left unsaid.
Then the
problem with the will had arisen and the inheritance because she
wasn’t a Ludlow. Her parent’s had left her The Dower House, but
Ludlow Hall would need to be sold. And then she’d had to deal with
her fiancé’s decision that they were too young to settle down. He
hadn’t attended the funeral, saying it was a ‘private, family
matter.’ What kind of person did something like that to someone
they were supposed to care about?
The room swam
as tears gathered behind her eyes. Her throat tightened. Furious
with herself she blinked them away.
She’d researched Carl
Terlezki. Google wasn’t just Rosie’s friend.
The man who
stared at her from her laptop was in his mid-sixties, slim, tanned
and still handsome. He had a thick shock of white hair and
apparently was a wealthy financier and a man who raised millions
for good causes. Although he appeared to have had relationships,
he’d never married nor had children. At least none he acknowledged
publicly.
She’d put his
face on her screensaver just to torture herself. What if he didn’t
want to know her? What if he thought she was after his money? What
did she want from him? In spite of her parent’s lying to her she’d
had an idyllic childhood. She still felt angry with them, the sense
of betrayal a weeping sore in her heart.
So she’d sent a
tentative letter keeping it vague, telling him about her parent’s
death and the discovery of a letter. Might she meet him to discuss
it? The reply had taken weeks since the letter had got caught up in
other correspondence. Carl had asked her to phone him and she had
done, less than forty eight hours ago. She was due to meet him on
tomorrow morning at his office in the City. By his tone he sounded
intrigued; he assumed she wanted him to donate funds to a worthy
cause. He’d be delighted, he said, to meet the daughter of such a
wonderful woman.
Bronte had no
idea what she was going to say to him and Alexander was not happy
about the situation. Her brother didn’t want to stir up a scandal,
old news from the past that would certainly hit the headlines and
smear the family name. She could understand it, but for too many
months she’d struggled with what was the right thing to do. Doing
nothing was not an option. So she’d taken the decision to play it
by ear. Give Carl Terlezki the letter and gauge his reaction to the
news. What was the worse that could happen?
No more tears,
she told herself ruthlessly as she stared now at the drawing of
Nico Ferranti.
She wanted
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